


Blood on White Fur

by QueenKatelynTheAristocrat



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Angst, Attempted Rape/ Non-Con (Very Light), Break Up, Dark, Drag Queens, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, End of Relationship, Fighting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Not based on real life, POV First Person, Painful Break Up, Toxic Relationship, True friends, cocaine addiction, physical fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25406575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenKatelynTheAristocrat/pseuds/QueenKatelynTheAristocrat
Summary: "The only thing I regret about that night is the fact that I was wearing my favorite white fur coat. And now that it’s been forever stained by the experience, I’ve regretfully had to throw it out, a decision that has had a strong detrimental effect on my wardrobe."The end of a relationship that probably should have ended a long time ago. Not everything turns out the way it does in fairy tales.
Relationships: Sharon Needles/Alaska Thunderfuck 5000
Kudos: 4





	Blood on White Fur

**Author's Note:**

> This is in NO WAY based on reality, nor do I know anything about the way that this relationship ended in real life. I was listening to a podcast the other day where Alaska was explaining a few things about their break up, and the idea for this story popped into my head.

The only thing I regret about that night is the fact that I was wearing my favorite white fur coat. And now that it’s been forever stained by the experience, I’ve regretfully had to throw it out, a decision that has had a strong detrimental effect on my wardrobe. 

But whatever. It was stained, so it had to go. I mean, the blood might have come out after a wash or two, some bleach, a dry cleaning, I don’t really know, but the stain of anger, of misery associated with the event? That was stuck deep in those soft plastic faux-fur hairs for the rest of eternity. 

And I just can’t have that kind of negative energy in my life. 

But regardless of any wishes to the contrary, I guess it makes sense that I was wearing the coat that night when I walked into our home, absolutely exhausted -- dead on my feet, in fact -- from the gig I’d just done at some bar (I can’t remember which one anymore; the entire night was overshadowed by what followed), but thankfully I’d changed out of drag at the bar, so later that night I didn’t have to check into a hotel covered in blood  _ and  _ dressed like a woman. Thank gay jesus for small miracles. 

What was I saying? Oh yeah, it makes sense I was wearing the coat because I wore it all the time back then. In fact, I wore it so often that it’s in every single picture I have of myself between the event and about three years previous. I can’t even go through photo albums anymore without thinking, “Damn, Justin, if only you hadn’t been wearing that damn coat on that exact night you could still be wearing it today, but no, you had to wear it, you were cold, it made you look like a movie star, it made you look like someone people would stop in the street to sign autographs, and besides there’s nothing more provocative than a man wearing a fur coat.” 

I spent a lot of my time those days trying to be provocative, and not enough time remembering that I was worth more than he told me I was. That coat was like my armor. Allowed me to convince myself that the reason strangers stared at me in disgust when I passed them in the street was because I wasn’t adhering to gender norms, rather than the fact that I was a literal --  _ literal  _ \-- walking disaster. 

So I suppose that in a way, the loss of that coat is kinda symbolic. I still fucking miss it, though. It was  _ iconic _ . 

But either way, for better or for worse, I was wearing it when I got home that day. It was probably past two in the morning, the street was completely dead, and when I pulled into my parking spot behind our apartment building, I nearly hit a cat, black as the night, that was just  _ sitting  _ there, like it hadn’t learned by then having spent its whole life in NYC that when it saw bright lights a moving vehicle was coming next, but whatever. Probably another omen, if I cared to analyze it. 

As I got out of the car, I also grabbed my duffel bag full of dresses and wigs and shit -- it was the one with the winking eyelashes on it, I remember that quite clearly as well -- and I made sure I had my pepper spray in my pocket: never know what you might run into at two a.m. when you’re a man wearing a white fur coat and carrying a pink duffle bag. 

Another thing I remember is how worried I was that I’d wake him coming into the apartment. He’d been cranky and upset all day, mad at me for reasons I couldn’t have explained to you if I tried (probably jealous, if I had to guess. He wasn’t getting many gigs those days, and I’d been working every weekend pretty much all year) and if I woke him up, I just knew we’d get into the screaming match of the century. 

Little did I know…

So in the interest of stealth, when I turned my key in the lock to our front door, I did it slowly and gently, and when I opened and shut the door, I did it an inch at a time, my heart beating just a little bit faster, praying to whichever gods would listen that he was asleep in our bedroom and not on the couch, because if the latter case was true, I’d be more likely to wake him. 

If he was in our room, however, I could just sleep on the couch, and not have to deal with him until the morning. And hopefully by then, he’d be in a better mood. 

The door led into the kitchen / dining room, and that led into a hallway to the living room, so when I walked in I could already tell the small lamp in the living room had been left on. When I noticed that, I let out a gentle sigh of relief, even closing my eyes for a second, because I thought I was in the clear: he needed pitch black to sleep -- constantly complained about my affinity for night-lights -- so the most likely scenario was that he’d forgotten to turn the lamp off before going to bed. 

It was only seconds before I realized exactly how wrong I was. 

I only made it about three steps down the hallway when I heard him call my name, “Justin! Babe! I’ve literally just had the  _ best  _ idea!” 

And something about the tone of his voice. Something about the way he spoke. Something about the way he never called me “babe” when he was sober dropped my stomach straight to my feet. I knew what this meant. I didn’t want to believe it, but I knew it. 

I felt light-headed as I walked toward the living room, down the pitch-black hallway, still carrying that damn giant duffle bag, my heartbeat strong in my throat, and something about my exhaustion mixed with my dread making me feel nauseous. 

I wanted to be wrong. I  _ so badly  _ wanted to be wrong, that in that moment I would have given anything for it. 

Now, looking back, it genuinely  _ terrifies  _ me, the things I would have given to be wrong in that moment. But apparently even my very own soul wasn’t enough to convince the devil to reverse this particular mischief of his, because my suspicions were confirmed the moment I walked into the living room. 

And I think some part of me knew exactly what was going to happen when I walked in there, a part of me that was small and meek and so in love with him still, a part of me that remembered who he was before he turned into a monster. And when I had almost reached the entrance to the living room, when the endless journey that was that hallway finally came to an end, that part of me wouldn’t let me go on, it forced me to stop right before the entrance, it forced me to lean against the wall of the hallway where he wouldn’t see me even if he was sitting in the armchair that faced the entrance, and it wouldn’t let me go on. 

I tried to walk forward, but I just  _ couldn’t do it.  _ Perhaps that part of me wasn’t ready to give up. 

But then he must’ve gotten tired of waiting for me, because he said, “Justin, man, where are you? I gotta tell you all about this, baby!” 

I took a deep breath, swallowed hard to get rid of my nausea, and I took that final step into inevitability. Into the part of my life that came after. Or, you know, into our living room. 

And the moment I saw him, I knew I was right. And right then and there I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry. I wanted to curse the devil himself for doing this to him. I wanted to ask him why. Why? Why was I never worth more to him than  _ this?  _

But I didn’t. I just stood there silently as he struggled to stand from the sofa, pushing  _ my  _ guitar off his lap carelessly to the ground as he did so, shaky and completely strung out, hair a disaster, wearing sunglasses at night with only a single lamp on, looking like heartbreak on two legs. Looking like what happens when you give up on yourself. Looking kind of like the man I fell in love with, but also completely different. 

When he finally made it to his feet, he said, “Baby, I’ve just come up with the best song idea ever. It’s about you. And how fucking gorgeous you are.” 

He stumbled towards me, and a year ago those words would have made me smile, they would have set my heart on fire, they would have reminded me why I  _ loved  _ this man so much, but now they just sounded  _ wrong.  _ Distorted. And I felt nothing but pure and unadulterated dread. 

“Baby, I love you so much. Justin. Baby. You look so  _ fucking  _ amazing. Put that shit on the ground and fucking kiss me.” By then he’d reached me, and he was grabbing at my duffle bag, trying to pull it off me, but he was so fucked up that he was way rougher than he thought he was, and that was the thing that finally convinced me to move, because I did  _ not  _ want his hands on me right now. 

I jerked back from him, and he stumbled a bit, but righted himself easily enough. I dropped the bag behind me on the floor. I turned back to him, glaring, but he clearly didn’t pick up on it, because he said, “Alright. No need to be so feisty.” and he moved back into my personal space right away. 

He kissed me before I could fight him off, and immediately, he was on me like some sort of octopus, clinging, grabbing, fucking  _ suctioning,  _ and I gave myself a single second to mourn how much different this had felt  _ before,  _ and then I pushed him back. Hard. 

He stumbled into our coffee table, ended up sitting on it. “Justin, what the fuck?” 

He didn’t look any more sober. He just looked angry. 

“Aaron, you’re  _ high. _ ” I said, my voice stronger than I thought it would be. 

And that was what sealed the deal for me, in retrospect at least. Something about saying it outloud made it real. Realer than it was when it was just an unspoken _thing_ as it had been before I spoke. Before I decided I wasn’t living with a cocaine addict anymore. Before I got tired of him treating me like _shit._  
“What are you talking about? I’m not.” he protested, but he needn’t have bothered. I stalked forward, grabbed the sunglasses off his face -- pretty viciously, I must admit -- and threw them to the ground, and lifted his chin. I looked into his eyes. Dilated. Empty. 

I stared into them for a minute. I don’t know what I was looking for. Maybe some tiny flicker, some sign of the man I knew before this drug took over everything. Unfortunately for him, I didn’t find it. 

“ _ Yes  _ you are. Don’t lie to me. I’m not an idiot.” If his eyes weren’t enough proof, the state of our --  _ new  _ \-- coffee table certainly was. 

Even in his addled state, he seemed to realize the wisdom in this. “Ok, so you’re right. I’m high. Who fucking cares, babe?” 

“We said we weren’t doing this anymore.” I said, voice flat. 

He laughed, and the sound of it was like a knife. “No,  _ you  _ said we weren’t doing this anymore. I just nodded along with you and said, ‘Sure, babe.’ to shut you up.” 

I was so angry, I didn’t even know what to say in response to that. Literally. I had nothing. Nothing but fury and exhaustion and the sudden realization that  _ this  _ was the man I was living with. The man who shared my home. This monster. 

This is who this drug had turned him into. 

Apparently he took my silence for agreement, because he pushed himself back to his feet and before I knew it he was up in my space again. I didn’t even have time to react before his tongue was in my mouth again, but this time he also stuck his hand down my pants. 

That was it. I grabbed his wrist, threw his arm down hard by his side, shoved him back again, and said, “Don’t  _ fucking  _ touch me right now, Aaron.” He took a step back trying to get his balance back, but he stepped on the sunglasses I’d thrown to the ground just moments ago, which caused him to trip and fall straight down on his ass. 

I think I saw this next part coming as well. Something about the  _ kind  _ of anger on his face, a specific kind of malice I’d never seen him wear before -- at least not aimed at me -- and also a kind of determination. A decision. He made a decision, and that’s what sealed both our fates that night. 

He got up. Looked me right in the eye. Said, “Stupid bitch.” and he slapped me in the face. Hard. So hard my head moved with the force of it. So hard he probably left a pink mark on my cheek, you know, like the ones you see on TV. So hard the sound echoed through the apartment. 

For a moment, I didn’t know how to react. I didn’t look at him, I looked at the rest of the room. The dirty dishes and piles of trash sitting on the side tables and on the couch. My guitar on the ground. One of my wigs on a stand on top of the TV. 

I put my hand to my face, covering the place where he hit me. I turned back to him slowly. I looked  _ him  _ dead in the eye. Something inside me snapped. Whatever part of me remembered who he used to be was gone. Now I was just mad. Angry.  _ Furious.  _

_ No one.  _ Hits me and gets away with it. 

I saw the moment he realized his mistake. He realized his mistake, because he knew that I was sober. And he was fucked up. And now, I was just as mad as he was. 

The look on his face, moments before my fist collided with his nose, was pure fear. 

I punched him hard enough to break his nose. He didn’t take nearly as long as I did to recover himself. 

Before I knew it, he was lunging for me fists swinging, but his motor skills were off enough that his punches were easy to dodge. He was screaming at me, a litany of insults that I don’t even remember. All I registered was the sound of his voice. Unhinged. Crazy. 

I swung at him again, and this time he went down. I threw myself on top of him, pinned his arms to the ground, and suddenly I was shouting. “ YOU CAN’T FUCKING TREAT ME LIKE THIS YOU FUCKING BASTARD I WON’T FUCKING STAND FOR IT!” 

He was struggling, and I was trying my best to hold down his weight, but moments later, he managed to flip us and then he was pinning me down with his entire body, blood dripping from his nose onto my clothes, onto my face. He was screaming in my face, spittle flying from his mouth, and all I could think was that I had to get away from him before he killed me. 

I had my eyes closed because I couldn’t force myself to look at him. I was wiggling my body around, trying to get an arm free, but he had them pinned. Finally, however, I got my opportunity when he lifted his hands off me -- I think he was going for my neck to strangle me, but I don’t like thinking about that -- and he lifted his chest from mine at the same time. 

I took the opportunity to surge up and force him off me to the side. My fear must have given me strength I didn’t know I had, because I pushed him hard enough that his head slammed into the coffee table, and then he crumpled to the ground beside it. 

I got up to my feet as quickly as I could, terrified I’d hurt him badly, but he was already struggling to his feet as well as second later. 

He tried to come for me again, but then I suddenly remembered: pepper spray. I grabbed it out of my pocket, held it out in his face, and yelled, “Stop!” 

He paused for a second, smiled a macabre bloody smile, and said, “You think that shit is gonna stop me?” and lunged forward. 

I didn’t think. I just sprayed. He went down screaming. 

“Fuck you and fuck this!” I said, kicking him just once because I couldn’t resist. 

I stepped right up next to him where he was on the ground, crouched down next to him -- he was still rubbing at his eyes frantically -- and I said, surprisingly calm for the situation, “This is over. It’s over between us. For good. I am leaving, and I am never coming back.” 

I paused for a second. I think I wanted him to say something. To beg me to stay. It wouldn’t have worked, but it would have been nice if he cared. But he didn’t. 

Eventually, I gave up. I stood. Looked down at my coat. It was covered in his blood. I took it off, and tossed it on the coffee table. I put the pepper spray back in my pocket (never know what you’ll run into at night in NYC). Grabbed my guitar. Grabbed my duffle bag. I left all my other belongings: clothes, toiletries, all that. None of it mattered at that moment. 

I made it all the way to the kitchen by the time he started shouting again. I slammed the door against the sound. Got back into my car. Backed out of the spot, checking behind me to make sure the cat was gone. Got back on the highway. 

I knew he wouldn’t follow me. And even if he did, there were far too many hotels in our area for him to know where to look. And he was so fucked up he’d probably pass out covered in his own blood. But regardless of all that, I was inordinately terrified. 

I drove about an hour that night before I felt safe enough to find a hotel. 

When I checked in, I told the lady at the desk that if anyone came by asking if I was there, she should under no circumstances give them my room number. She took one look at the blood on my shirt and agreed. 

I got to my room, and the first thing I did -- after locking the door, that is -- was call my best friend Jeremy. He answered within the first three rings, despite the fact that it was closer to morning than night at this point. 

“Justin, what’s wrong?” 

His voice. It sounded like safety. Like childhood. I started sobbing immediately. 

“Justin, what the fuck happened?” he sounded more insistent this time. 

“I thought he was going to fucking kill me, Jeremy.” I managed to get out. 

“Oh my god. Where are you?” 

“AmericInn.” I answered.

“Where?” 

“I… I don’t really know…” I said, miserably. 

He didn’t say anything for a second. Then, “If you find out where you are, I will be there as soon as possible.” 

I thought about that. I didn’t know if I wanted him to see me like this. 

“Justin, please. I want to help you.” 

I got up to look around the room for identification. Or an address. Or something. 

Soon enough, I found it. I gave him the address. “I need you to try to hold yourself together, ok? I will be there as soon as I can.” he said, “Ok?” 

He waited for me to say, “Ok.” in response. 

“Alright. I love you. See you soon.” 

He hung up. I called the front desk to let them know that when he got here, they were allowed to give him my room number. “Just him.” I specified. 

“Of course!” the lady said, cheerfully. 

I thought about changing my clothes, but then I remembered that the only change of clothes I had was an evening gown. I went to the bathroom and washed my face and hands and arms regardless. 

When that was done, I went back to the bed and laid down, and tried to make my mind as blank as possible as I waited for Jeremy to arrive. 

Eventually, he did. Someone knocked on the door. I went up to it. He said, “Justin, it’s me.” I believed him. 

I opened the door and ushered him in as quickly as possible, then locked it again and spun around to face him, back against the door. He just stared at me, and I remember as clearly as a photograph the exact look on his face, although describing it is quite difficult. He was angry -- at Aaron, not me -- he was sad, he pitied me, but there was also an infinite kind of tenderness there. The kind that only best friends can share. Platonic. Soft. 

“Can I hug you?” he asked. 

I nodded, and he didn’t waste a second. The moment his arms were around me, I was sobbing again. 

I don’t exactly remember how, but we ended up sitting on the bed together. “Can you tell me what happened?” 

I did. I told the whole story. 

“I don’t ever want to go back there again.” I confessed, part of me ashamed of my cowardice. 

“You won’t have to, I promise. Tomorrow I’ll call our friends. Tell them you and Aaron broke up, but not how or why. We’ll get everything you own and report back. And besides that, you can stay with me if you don’t want to go back to your parents’. For as long as you want.” 

I pulled back from the hug enough to look in his eyes. “Really?” 

He smiled a sort of sad and tender smile. “Of course.” 

“Thank you so much.” I said, hugging him again. 

“You’re welcome.” he said. I think he knew I was thanking him for more than just the offer of a place to stay and help getting my belongings. 

About an hour later, I asked, “Will you stay here tonight? It’s a queen bed.” 

He just laughed. I looked at him in confusion. He explained, “Justin, it’s nearly seven in the morning. I’ve already stayed here tonight.” 

“Oh. Will you stay here today?” 

It was Saturday. Which meant he didn’t have to go into work. But somehow, I knew that was the last thing that affected his decision when he said, “Of course.” yet again. 

I was so relieved, I nearly cried again. “Thank you.” 

“It’s nothing. Now, why don’t you try to sleep? You’ve had a long night.” 

I nodded. That I could agree with. It had been quite a long night. 

I slept through most of that day, which means I missed watching Jeremy call our friends. Tell them I’d finally left Aaron. Planning everything out. 

When I found out just how much he’d done for me that day, I’d felt more astutely than ever just how lucky I was to have him as my best friend. 

I’m still making it up to him, even though he insists I owe him nothing. I insist that since he helped me at the darkest time in my life, I will help him with anything he needs, anytime. 

But this was all far in the future of the story I’m trying to tell. The story of that night. The worst night of my life. The night I left a man who was no longer the man I fell in love with at eighteen. 

The night I realized who I could really count on, and who was just dragging me down with them. 

The last thing I said before I fell asleep was this: “Jeremy?” 

“Yeah, man?” 

“I miss my coat.” 

He just laughed softly. “You’ll get a better one.” 

I didn’t believe it that night. 

But since then, I have. 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and Comments make my day! <3


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